


The Salvation of Utopia

by ecrituredelafangirl



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, F/M, Love, M/M, Multi, Slash, There will be violence, and probably some blood, but also aching romance, so much slash - Freeform, superheroes saving France AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:45:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrituredelafangirl/pseuds/ecrituredelafangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Amis have evolved certain powers in a futuristic dystopian Paris. And then they save this Paris from itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

There was adrenaline shooting through his veins with each pump of his heart. He wasn’t sure where he was going, he wasn’t sure how he would survive when he got there but he knew he could never go back. Not to Monsieur Mabeuf’s. Not to his grandfather, back at the University. Nowhere. 

The past couple of hours went flashing through his mind in a whirl of color and pounding sound. He had been training – Monsieur Mabeuf had been training him, he couldn’t remember exactly what they had been doing – but then they had been stormed: figures, clothed in black, shattering the windows and breaking down the door. They had shoved him behind them, they had killed Monsieur Mabeuf, they had made him watch. And then they had offered him clemency. 

He had taken out a fair lot of them before he ran. Ran with the intent of no one ever being able to find him again. He was nineteen and he had no idea what he was getting himself into…

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Marius, alone and without resources, had descended into the Underworld of Utopian Paris on what, unbeknownst to him, was the eve of revolution. Alone, he was almost helpless, but he had managed to stumble upon the house on the outskirts of the city – a house dedicated to the Underground super group, the ABC - called Gorbeau. And, at a tip-off from dear Eponine, that was where Courfeyrac found him.

“Ah, Madame,” he said, as he sauntered through the open front door. The old landlady looked up at him with something akin to affection. “I hear that you acquired a new tenant yesterday evening.” 

The old woman had very few teeth as she smiled at him and her hair had nearly been pulled out of her head, such was the tightness of her bun – but none of this deterred Courfeyrac. Nothing could deter Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was gifted, Courfeyrac was handsome, and right now Courfeyrac was determined. 

“And I hear he has quite the scandal following him,” Courfeyrac continued lowly. The woman signed something (she was trusted with this important post for her discretion, her unassuming appearance, and the fact that she had been struck mute by servants of the government nearly twenty years ago) and Courfeyrac nodded. 

“I see,” he murmured and then he whipped around at a minute creak on the stairs, a dashing smile upon his face, his arms thrown wide and found… Eponine. 

She cocked an eyebrow, tucking something into her men’s trousers, and snorted. “He’s hiding. Second door upstairs on the left, next to my father’s rooms.” And then she slipped past him and out the door without another word. 

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac grinned after her. She didn’t turn around. With one last grin at the old landlady, Courfeyrac glided up the stairs. 

And the door (second on the left, next to Monsieur Thénadier’s rooms) opened at his touch and the surprised young man standing behind it already had a knife to his throat. 

“I’ll kill you,” the boy said, his voice quivering. Courfeyrac breathed deeply. 

“I have no doubt of that. But you may want to wait until you’ve heard what I have to say,” he said smoothly. 

“You-you… What is it you have to say?” The quiver was still there. All Courfeyrac could really see of him was his freckled forehead, a spike of dark hair, a pair of gold-flecked green eyes. And Courfeyrac relaxed and allowed his virtue to take over. He smiled a bit, to put the boy at ease. 

“About joining our cause,” he said silkily. And the boy paused for a moment, his wide eyes focusing on Courfeyrac’s face. Courf felt the knife dig infinitesimally into his skin. 

“I don’t want to join _anything_ you could have to offer –”

“As we fight against the government and enjoin a cry for justice – that they get what they deserve for their heinous crimes against humanity,” Courfeyrac continued, ignoring the warm tickle as a stream of blood slid down his neck. “I believe they have taken something from you recently? Something _important_?”

Courfeyrac was practically purring now and the boy’s grip on his knife slackened as his eyes faded into trepidation. Courfeyrac could practically feel him questioning: do I believe him? Do I not? He did not need Combeferre to know that was exactly what the boy was thinking. 

“How do you know that?” the boy whispered harshly, but he stepped back. His knife was still clenched tightly in his fist, but he was lowering it to his side slowly. Courfeyrac took his handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it up to his neck, gently staunching the blood at his throat. 

Courfeyrac gave him his best “ _I’m sorry for your loss_ ” look, while extending a tendril of empathy to the boy. He watched his shoulders relax. “It’s easy enough to guess, my friend. You are tense, you just had a knife to my throat, and you came here in the dead of night last evening shivering and spattered in blood that was clearly not your own, as you are currently not bandaged.” 

The boy breathed harshly, his eyes wide, innocent, unsure. Courfeyrac had the sudden urge to wrap him in a blanket and keep him safe from everything treacherous out there in France, in the world. And that’s just not something anyone could afford these days. 

“I-I… Are you… What do you _want_ with me?” the boy said. His eyes were shining and Courfeyrac could feel him drifting closer towards a wretched breakdown. He stretched another tendril of empathy, probed the young man’s mind. He sighed, his eyes closing. 

“I just want to bring you down, to the leader of the ABC. I have been assigned to take you to speak to him,” Courfeyrac said calmly. “Will you come with me?” 

The boy looked wary for a moment. “I… What does your leader want from _me_?”

Courfeyrac considered that for a moment, before shrugging and grinning. “I can only guess, my friend. But I’ll bet it has something to do with your reputation. You are the youngest man to ever graduate from The University. And the only pupil Monsieur Mabeuf had taken on in something like twenty-five years.”

By now the young man was red behind his freckles. “These things might have something to do with it.”

The young man hesitated a moment. “How do you know all these things?” 

Courfeyrac sighed. “Marius Pontmercy. Everyone knows all these things. There’s not a place in Upper Paris where you are truly safe.” It wasn’t a lie and it wasn’t a threat. It was a tactical mention of fact. Courfeyrac gave him an assuring look. 

Marius cringed a little, and bent to slide his knife into an ankle-sheath. He sighed and looked at his small room as though searching for belongings that he didn’t own. Then he met Courfeyrac’s gaze. 

“Your leader?” he said, emotions roiling at war in his chest. He felt dead in the process of mourning, Courfeyrac could tell, as well as scared – what was he to do now? – and angry, bent on vengeance, and excited, just a bit. Courfeyrac smiled, bowing his head a bit. 

“Enjolras.”

“I’ll come,” Marius said, his jaw set. He looked fearsome, Courfeyrac thought, and pride swelled a bit in his chest. He quickly stepped over and put his arm around Marius, pulling him from the room, down the stairs, out the door, chattering warmly the whole time. 

“You won’t regret this, Marius Pontmercy. This – _this_ is a once in a lifetime opportunity,” Courfeyrac said. Then he reached a sewer cap and stopped. He had to pull Marius back a bit as the boy kept walking. He stumbled a bit before kneeling next to Courfeyrac. 

“This is it?” he asked, a bit of color in his tone. He looked at Courfeyrac as though he was, perhaps, completely out of his mind. 

Courfeyrac merely grinned broadly, warmly. “Why, of course.” And then he pulled at his glove until it slipped off his slender fingers before pressing a single fingertip to the center of the sewer cap. He grinned as there was a low grinding below the surface, and the metal cap pulled apart and slipped into the ground. And there was suddenly a black hole in the pavement. 

“Guests first,” Courfeyrac said, gesturing broadly. And Marius squeaked a bit before giving Courfeyrac a dark, yet blazing look. Then he twisted about and lowered himself into the darkness. 

Courfeyrac laughed a bit in exhilaration – he loved fostering the newbies – before following Marius into the inkiness of the Underground. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Enjolras remembered the day that he discovered the sprawling underground network that was the Paris sewer system. He had always known it was there, in theory, of course. But it hadn’t been until he was locked up that he was given a reason to _know_ \- having been imprisoned for far-reaching reasons the government had concocted to get the most threatening rabble-rouser off the street. He wasn’t sure which emotion has won out at the time – pride, even _glee_ , at his adversary viewing him as such a monstrous threat, or frustration that he could do next to nothing to further his cause from a jail cell. 

It took next to no time at all for the frustration to win out. Within a week he was plotting an escape plan. Within a month he had executed it. 

And just like that, he had the chief of police on his tail, and he was running like a bat out of hell. And then he was cornered, with nothing but a sewer cap before him and a brick wall at his back. He chose the sewer. And held his breath. 

Not that such a precaution was necessary. It smelled nothing like he thought it would. It took him less than twenty minutes of wandering to discover why. 

“What are you doing down here?” he had asked the man, who turned around, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes dirty, his body surprisingly clean. And the man had cracked an amused smile. 

“I _live_ here, Apollo. How the fuck did _you_ get down here?” 

I climbed,” Enjolras answered stupidly, watching the man curiously as he walked away. Then, of course, he followed him. 

“You live down here?” he asked. 

“What a good listener you are,” the other man said sarcastically. Enjolras coughed a bit, irritated, but easily kept pace with the man. 

“Why?” 

“Because no one bothers me down here,” the man said, sighing. “Or at least they hadn’t, ‘til today. Nice jumpsuit.”

Enjolras had to stop for a moment and look down. Orange prison jumpsuits, distributed by the Utopia, were the most conspicuous things in the world. He sighed. 

“So, are you on the run or what? I can’t help you if you are,” the man said, coming into a large room, domed, with water rushing some hundred feet below the platform on which they were standing. “Or, maybe I could. But I don’t see…why I should.”

The man made his way to a table to the side of the room, small, rickety, old. Enjolras took immediate stock of his surroundings – a refrigerator (how the fuck was he powering it?), a bed, a desk with paper and spatters of color, a table, a microwave, and somehow this man had hooked up several overhead lights, and a lamp on the floor next to the bed. It was oddly homey, Enjolras noted, and for a moment he admired the man who had come to live in the sewers. Until the man continued speaking. 

“You don’t have to answer – that’s fine. I just,” he practically threw himself down into a chair at what Enjolras assumed was his dining table, “I talk for my own health sometimes.” And he opened a cooler (Enjolras hadn’t seen it previously, it was against the wall, painted black) and pulled out a bottle. He offered it to Enjolras first, who wrinkled his nose, shook his head, before shrugging and removing the top, taking a sip. He leaned back in his seat, his eyes – a bright blue, Enjolras noticed, almost unnatural – taking his guest in slowly. 

“You’re that Revolutionary bastard, aren’t you?” he suddenly said, sounding almost bored. “You led a movement, some kind of protest against the government that fell on its ass, right?” 

Enjolras’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?” He had been sure the Utopia would keep it under wraps. There was nothing the king hated more than ‘boisterous young lads bent on stirring the pot’. Enjolras resented it. 

The man waved him away, “I know everything, Apollo.” Then he grinned up at him. “How the hell did you get out?”

Enjolras regarded him coldly. “I thought you knew everything?” 

The man snorted, but looked unamused. “I don’t care if you answer, but if you’re just here to sass me in my own home – “

“I don’t really know how I got out, okay?” Enjolras answered quickly. “It just… When I put my mind to something, in its entirety, it generally gets done. And I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sorry.”

The man cocked an eyebrow, taking another sip of whatever the hell. “So, you’re gifted.” 

“Yes,” Enjolras replied shortly. The man cocked his head at his tone. 

“But you don’t… _want_ to be?” he asked, looking curious. 

“I wish people wouldn’t put so much stock into biological things,” he replied, crossing his arms, standing up straight. “Everyone… The people as a whole deserve the all the same rights. Because I was born as someone’s specified definition of ‘special’ shouldn’t make me any better than a person who was not.” 

The man snorted at him then. “That’s pure idiocy.” 

Enjolras stiffened. “I resent that.” 

“Doesn’t matter. Won’t change my opinion.” The man smiled at him. 

“Who _are_ you?” Enjolras found himself asking. If a shade of rudeness found its way into his tone, he didn’t care. 

The man smiled, broadly. “Grantaire is what they told me. I go by R, if you care enough to use it.”

“Grantaire…” Enjolras said, quietly, as though testing it. Then he turned a slight scowl towards the other man. “Do you believe in _anything_?”

Grantaire snorted, looking at the bottle in his hand. He took another sip of whatever it was before looking at Enjolras. “That’s a good question,” he said, gently. “No.”

Enjolras looked taken aback. “Nothing?” 

“Nothing but my full bottle, friend,” Grantaire replied dryly. 

“That’s…” Enjolras began. 

“And you.” Enjolras halted for a moment. Grantaire was looking at him thoughtfully. “I might be persuaded… I could believe in you.” 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“And then after that, Enjolras holed up here in the Underground, made it his base really, and Grantaire never minded – he even helps out sometimes, when he’s sober enough (And Grantaire is good company, splendid company, Marius). And, eventually we all made our way here.” 

Courfeyrac was grinning, leading Marius through the dark Underground, guided by the spare number of torches that lined the maze to its center. He loved this story, Grantaire not believing in anything, Enjolras believing so fiercely… They were a pair of opposites if he had ever met any. (Although Jehan had said something on that subject recently. Something about them not being quite so opposite as they all had thought.) They had a strange relationship, the two of them, arguing fiercely for hours. Courfeyrac couldn’t tell if they liked each other, hated each other, or wanted to get into each other’s pants. He comforted himself with the assumption that it was likely some combination of the three. 

“Isn’t this wonderful, Marius?” Courfeyrac said. 

Marius’s hands were shaking and Courfeyrac could tell that he was trying to hide it. He smiled gently at the other man, trying to put him at ease. When Marius couldn’t see him in the shadowy dimness, Courfeyrac extended another tendril of empathy, and, with a deep breath of his own, calmed Marius’s mind. 

“Courfeyrac!” a voice boomed down the hall. And Courfeyrac grinned. 

“Bahorel!” he called back. 

“You got him?” came the question, and Courfeyrac feigned a wounded expression. 

“My dear friend, did you _doubt_ me?” And Bahorel’s booming laugh could probably be heard somewhere along the Seine. Courfeyrac smiled at him as he neared, Marius in tow. Marius, who now looked more nervous than before. This was understandable – Bahorel was standing there, in the doorway, looking formidable at 6’5”, with long dark hair, a nose that had clearly been broken several times, and covered in ink and scars – including a rather large one that ran from his neck up over his right cheek and clear across the bridge of his nose. Bahorel was scary on the best days, in full daylight. In the shaded darkness, Courfeyrac was sure he looked terrifying. He extended another tendril of empathy, sheathing Marius’s entire mind in his calming influence. 

“I imagined him bigger,” Bahorel said, giving Marius the once over. 

“And I’m sure he imagined you less frightening,” Courfeyrac shot back, a slightly amused look on his face. “Is Enjolras ready for us?”

Bahorel nodded, but then he grimaced a bit. 

“What?” Courfeyrac said, with no small amount of trepidation. 

“Just…he got into it with Grantaire while you were out. So if he’s a little… _touchy_ …” 

Courfeyrac nodded grimly. “Understood.” And then he reached out, grabbed Marius’s hand, and pulled him through the doorway. 

“You ready to see us now, chief?” Courfeyrac asked loudly, entering the Underground chamber. It was large and one could still hear the water of the sewers roaring beneath the floor. But, this, the upper portion of the room, was the base of operations for Les Amis L’ABC (called, simply, the ABC, by knowledgeable), lit generously with torches, candles, a brazier towards the center of the room. Not a light bulb in sight. There was, however, a corner full of computers and other necessary electronic equipment. There was much put into running an operation this large – an operation against the system in power, an operation that must be kept completely hidden. By the grace of God, or whoever was up there (and more than just a little help from the operatives’ virtues, generously interspersed) Enjolras had kept everything under wraps for more than three years now.

“Courfeyrac, how many times have I asked you _not_ to call me that?” and then a glorious blond man stood before Marius and Courfeyrac, the frown of an avenging angel upon his face. There was a tall, dark man behind him, smiling warmly behind wire-rimmed glasses. 

“Approximately 4,986,” the darker man said, and Enjolras smiled a bit at him. 

“You counted,” he said. 

“Of course he counted, Enjolras, he’s Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said quickly, shooting Combeferre a wide smile in response to a raised, questioning eyebrow. “And we love him. But this, my beautiful Grecian god of old, is Marius Pontmercy.”

And Courfeyrac watched as the angel’s eyes swept Marius with a stern expression. “Marius…” he said softly. “You are Marius Pontmercy?”

And Marius had to clear his throat to respond. “Yes.”

“You graduated from the University? At age 12?” the angel asked.

“I did,” Marius murmured. “You’re Enjolras.”

Enjolras nodded, a small smile playing upon his lips. “I am. Do you know why I wanted to see you?”

And Marius shook his head. Enjolras set a cold gaze on Courfeyrac who shrugged. “I was getting to that part.”

“Talk faster next time,” Enjolras said. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t mean. It was authoritative. Courfeyrac could tell that Marius couldn’t take his eyes off of him. “I brought you here because I wish to speak to you. I wish to speak to you because I have heard of you and your…impressive resume. You are nineteen?”

“I am,” Marius responded. He looked rather dumbfounded.

“You were trained by Monsieur Mabeuf? In the basic war arts?” 

“I was.”

“Until he was murdered before your eyes a little more than 24 hours ago.”

“…Yes.”

“And you were under his tutelage for over seven years. After graduating six years early from the University because of your virtue which seems to have manifested itself as your impressively advanced intellect.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Research,” Enjolras replied simply. “Are you willing to use your talents?” 

He was staring deeply into Marius’s eyes and Marius, it seemed, was at a loss. “I-I…for what?”

“For our cause,” Enjolras replied easily. 

“…Which is?” Marius asked, and Enjolras sent an exasperated look to Courfeyrac.

“Did you tell him _anything_?” he asked, a fond smile pulling at the edges of his lips. Courfeyrac coughed. 

“Uhh… I told him how we came to be in the sewers,” he said. And then he grinned. “It’s one of-“

“Your favorites,” Combeferre said, with a dry smile. “We know.”

“We _all_ know,” said a voice from across the room, someone who wasn't in Courfeyrac's line of sight. But he knew that voice. 

“Shut it, Feuilly,” Courfeyrac said. But he was grinning. 

“Marius,” Enjolras said, reining the attention back to the matter at hand. “Our cause is equality. You’ve been in the Upper World. You know what it’s like. You were treated as an upper class citizen because you were blessed with a virtue – you were allowed to be educated and trained. But there are a thousand children out there who _are not_ like you. Because they were born without a virtue, the government treats them as second class citizens and _this needs to stop_.”

“I…” Marius was quailing under the intensity in Enjolras’s eyes. “I’ve never thought about it.” 

“Well,” Enjolras said smoothly, his eyes still blazing. “Maybe you should.”

“Will you fight with us?” Enjolras asked. And for a moment, Marius looked like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing in a ridiculous fashion. Courfeyrac tried to reach him with another tendril of empathy, but found his way blocked. He looked to Combeferre who just nodded sagely. Mind block. 

“Do I have to answer this _now_?” he asked, his eyes wide, his face so pale that his freckles were _livid_. “Can I not have a night to turn this over in my mind? Give you an answer in the morning?”

Enjolras raised a singular eyebrow. “With a mind such as yours, I expected your reasoning to be quick and painless.” Then he shrugged. “No matter,” he said. “You may have tonight to think my proposal over.” And then he was turning, Combeferre on his heels, and walking away. 

“I think that’s my cue to show you to your room,” Courfeyrac said brightly. And then with a grin in Marius’ direction, his gripped his arm suddenly in a vice grip and began pulling him down a corridor, lit dimly from intermittent torches. 

And Marius followed, half-stumbling, only able to truly process one thought in his overwrought brain: What the _fuck_?


	2. 'The Eve of Rebellion is Upon Us'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire loves Enjolras, no one can really tell how Enjolras feels about Grantaire, Combeferre's rather tired of their behavior, Courfeyrac loves Jehan, Jehan loves Courfeyrac, and Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta discover something with warrants terror and utter joy in equal measures.

Grantaire liked to wander alone. To be frank, Grantaire just liked _being_ alone. He also hated it, but that was another story as these days he found it nearly impossible to be alone. That’s what happened when you let a pretty blonde with ambitions bigger than the king’s ego hole up in your secret hideaway. 

Not that he didn’t enjoy the constant buzz of activity – the flurry of people who were there to overthrow the government, replace it with an improved version of their own invention. Grantaire _liked_ people. Grantaire liked being around people. Sometimes it just got tiring, wondering if they actually hated him, if they just tolerated him because this was his space they were inhabiting. Sometimes he just needed a drink. 

Right now he needed a drink. That’s why he was hiding in a tunnel under the western portion of Paris. That’s why he was half-shitfaced and almost not surprised when the shadows across from him started thickening. He half-smiled when they weaved themselves into a solid form. 

“Eponine,” he said jovially, loudly. She awarded him with a direct stare, radiating something like boredom. 

“Grantaire,” she said, her voice hoarse. She sighed. “What are you doing down here?” 

“What does it look like?” he asked, as Eponine rummaged in her pockets, drawing out a pack of cigarettes. 

“It looks like something happened,” she said, pulling one out of the pack, holding it between her lips as she brought a match to life with the obligatory hiss. “You argued with him.”

Grantaire’s laugh was loud, and nearly without mirth. “Wow, what an assumption,” he said, with a smile. 

“I’d be more open to believing that you found this amusing if your smile reached your eyes,” she said, expelling smoke with every word. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Grantaire didn’t even try for a smile this time. “I really don’t.”

Eponine coughed placing her cigarette between her lips and inhaling smoothly. Grantaire watched the lit end burn orange. “Tough break. I didn’t fucking _want_ to talk about Marius, but guess how that went? Use your words.”

Grantaire growled a bit, low in his chest. Eponine glanced at him, unaffected. She blew a smoke ring and Grantaire finally reached out a hand. She rolled her eyes as she pried her cigarettes out of her pocket again, wrenching another from the box and shoving it into his palm. He picked it up with two fingers before holding the end to the lit cig shoved between her lips. When a slim tendril of smoke carved the air between them, he pulled back to place the cigarette between his lips, inhaling deeply and trying desperately to relax. 

“Where’d you get these?” he asked around the cigarette. 

Eponine flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette and fixed her gaze on him. “I stole them.” 

Grantaire nodded. “Good for you.”

“Now – Enjolras. Go,” she said in a clipped tone. 

Grantaire sighed. “We just got into it over this Marius thing.” He shrugged. 

“What about Marius?” Eponine said, and Grantaire just grinned at her tone. 

“He just thinks that Marius becoming a member of our cause is a foregone conclusion. I think differently,” Grantaire said, shrugging, blowing a stream of smoke before him. He watched it float upwards, into the darkness underground. 

“Foregone conclusion? That doesn’t sound like Enjolras,” Eponine said thoughtfully. “He’s all about choice, isn’t he?” And then she put out her cigarette on the toe of her boot, before tossing the stub to the left, into the disgusting water that remained in the sewers. “And since when is it _our_ cause?”

“Since he moved his glorious ass into my home,” Grantaire pointed out, and Eponine almost smiled. “And, yes, of course he’s giving the boy a choice. However, he’s also assuming that the boy will say yes. He also is assuming that this ‘yes’ will be forthcoming and swift.” And with a bitter expression, he pulled the cigarette from his lip and took a deep draught from the bottle in his fist. Eponine looked unfazed. 

“Has he read up on Marius at all?” she asked, knocking her newsboy cap from her head and reaching up to pull her hair back. 

Grantaire nearly choked on his drink as he snorted. “O, he’s read up on the boy. He’s been talking for days about his laundry list of achievements. It’s quite tiring.” He took another pull from the bottle. “He hasn’t mentioned a single detail about the boy’s personality. It should be quite interesting, when they actually meet. Based on what I’ve seen from Marius Pontmercy, he _is_ fierce, but he is also nervous. Due to the sheer volume of things that have happened to him in the past 24 hours, I doubt his answer will be forthcoming in the least.”

“You nailed that right on the head,” Eponine said quietly. Then she reached forward, pried the bottle from his fingers and brought it to her own lips. He watched her, a bit of a scowl on his face. 

“Why d’you like him again?” he asked, and she glared at him while she swallowed. 

“Why d’you like Enjolras?” she shot back. 

“That’s different,” Grantaire answered, scowling in full now. “You know it.”

“I might,” she said, a dark smirk on her face. And he could see in her marks left behind – by her father, her mother, that dangerously handsome douchebag Montparnasse. And despite her most ardent wishes, he found something in his chest hurting for her. But it was an old ache, and he was almost used to it.

“I like Marius…because he’s sweet. And he’s just…different. He’s got a virtue and he’s nice…” Grantaire heard her unspoken ‘to me’. Grantaire recognized the wistful look on her face. 

“You have a virtue and _you’re_ nice,” he pointed out. She shot him a withering glare. 

“I’m not nice,” she replied. “It’s one of my favorite things about me. Don’t take it away.” And he watched her take a deep draught from his bottle, almost smiling at her dark humor. 

“You treat me well, and I’m…normal,” he said slowly. Her eyes flickered to him in the half-light. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said lowly. And took another pull from the bottle, finally setting it on the ground, empty. Grantaire’s stomach squirmed uncomfortably when her eyes swung his way again. “No one just holes up in the sewer system for fun. You had a reason for being down here – and now you have a reason for staying down here. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.” And then she fixed him with a cold, penetrating gaze and he tried and failed to breathe normally. 

His mind raced, trying to find something to say, trying to formulate a way to refute the statement without sounding like he was lying. He couldn’t tell her, he couldn’t tell _anybody_ – hell, that was why he had been keeping it a secret in the first place. 

When he met her gaze again, there was an amused quirk to her lips. Grantaire took a breath in, ready to just blurt the first thing to come to mind when – 

“Eponine! Grantaire! You’re needed in the main foyer,” there was a command, whispered authoritatively through his mind. 

“Combeferre,” Eponine said, sighing, looking exasperated. She kicked the empty bottle over as she stood up. “I’ll see you in ‘the main foyer.’” Then she actually smiled, mockingly, before fading completely into the shadows. 

Grantaire picked up the bottle with a relieved sigh. Then he stubbed his cigarette out before grinding it into the ground with his heel. And then, with a slight cough, he turned towards the deeper darkness of the inner tunnels and began to make his way home. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“What the fuck is going on?” That seemed to be the general mood in ‘the main foyer’. Combeferre frowned over the growing crowd. He knew quite a few of them, but there were several unfamiliar faces. When had they come along?

He took a second to peruse the upper layers of their minds. Ah, there had been a prison break today. He smiled and addressed Enjolras. 

“We have 5 new additions,” he murmured telepathically, straight into Enjolras’s mind. His friend glanced over and nodded. 

“Yes, there was a rather large prison break yesterday evening,” he thought, with something of a smile hovering about his lips. 

“It seems there was,” Combeferre responded. “I’m glad they found their way here.”

Enjolras raised one perfect eyebrow. “That was their objective.” 

And then Grantaire entered from one of the southern passages. And Enjolras, as though on cue, turned to meet his gaze. Because, of course, _of course_ , Grantaire looked straight at the balcony towards the east of the room. Straight at Enjolras. 

Combeferre sighed, trying to ignore it. But Grantaire was practically screaming dirty things with his mind. When Combeferre sent a sharp look towards him, he was met with a smirk, and Courfeyrac snorted beside him. 

“This is ridiculous,” he thought at Combeferre. And Combeferre nodded, eyes wide. And Courfeyrac snorted again. 

Then Enjolras cleared his throat and everything in the room went still. Including his friends. Including Grantaire. 

“Citizens! The time is near!” He began speaking, his voice ringing out over the crowd, clear, concise, beautiful. Every single person in that glorified subterranean galley was silent, attentive. Combeferre smiled. 

“Our hero, our general, or model of belief in basic human rights has passed on,” Enjolras said. And Combeferre was amazed – there was emotion in his eyes, but he managed to keep it out of his voice. Combeferre himself would not have been capable of such a feat. “Yes, General LaMarque is dead. And while his death is a blow to our cause, I do not see why it cannot be an asset as well. This – the death of our hero – is the sign that we have been waiting for!” 

And there was suddenly a cheer echoing through the room. Combeferre allowed it to wash over him, pumping adrenaline and anticipation into his veins. Enjolras commanded words in a way that left most beings completely speechless. Combeferre himself was no exception to that rule. 

“The eve of rebellion is upon us! The unrest among the people is reaching its peak, and soon the tome for uprising will be prime – and at that time, we will seize our opportunity and we will _strike_! Strike the blow that will end this corrupt system of monarchy! We will close this age of misery and become the catalyst of what will dawn as a new age!” 

The crowd roared. And Combeferre was in love with this – with the seething crowd that rose and fell with the cadence of his friend’s impassioned words. He was in love with the look on Enjolras’s face, smooth and full of such conviction that he could lead Combeferre to the ends of the earth. He was in love with the idea that they were going to save the world. 

“Now we must keep watch – must become sensitive to the small idiosyncrasies that give this corrupt system its power. They have been trying to convince the public that we are mad! A group of insane radicals bent on destroying their well-being! Well,” and Enjolras gave this low chuckle that, Combeferre noted, was practically _threatening_ , “we know they’re wrong. And, thanks to our efforts, so do they! The people shall come to our aid! We _will_ be victorious! And the time is _near_!” 

And with a final rallying sound from the crowd, he backed away from the front of the balcony, taking a place near the back of the crowd gathered there, as Courfeyrac moved forward. 

“And, that’s it for now, my beautiful horde,” he said smoothly, and Combeferre smiled to himself as some in the riled crowd _laughed_. “We’ll be keeping our eyes and ears open, waiting for the most opportune time to stage our great _strike_ , as it was. And, once we know, you will know. I promise.” And then he winked, and moved back. And the crowd started filing from the hall, slowly, chatting comfortably amongst themselves. Combeferre smiled to himself. 

“So… It really is…‘almost time’, then?” Courfeyrac asked. He sounded a mite uneasy to Combeferre. 

“It is indeed,” Enjolras said, importantly, his voice still carrying some of the ringing tone he had used for his speech. He had one perfect eyebrow raised. “Are you surprised?”

And Courfeyrac snorted a bit, before Combeferre caught something just short of terror in his eyes. And then Courfeyrac pitched forward a bit as 177 pounds of lithe muscle hit his back. 

“Courfeyrac,” a voice said lowly. And Combeferre watched Courfeyrac’s face transform – from the previous utter terror to a new kind of serenity.

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac _sighed_. And Combeferre couldn’t explain the connection etched into their thoughts, the way everything in their minds seemed to center around each other. Combeferre has seen the minds of a thousand couples, how they each seemed to form their own universes, with their own thoughts on their relationship – their own conclusions to issues they were having, would have, had already had. Courfeyrac and Jehan had never been like that – when they had entered into their relationship, it was as though they had taken those two separate universes and smashed them into each other, forming one they shared. One that revolved around the purity of their relationship – how they did everything for each other, with each other, how incredibly deeply they _loved_ each other. Combeferre had never seen anything like it. 

And Jehan was placing a kiss to the side of Courfeyrac’s throat, looking intent. And Courfeyrac reached back and twined his fingers gently in Jehan’s hair, breath hitching a bit at the contact. Jehan smiled, and climbed off of Courf’s back. Courfeyrac turned around, took Jehan’s face in his hands and kissed him thoroughly. Combeferre averted his gaze, but he couldn’t avert his mind. 

“I missed you,” Jehan said softly. And Combeferre felt Courfeyrac sighed, happy beyond the normal bounds of happiness. 

“I missed you too,” he said gently. And then Combeferre glanced up to see them smiling at each other. 

Enjolras cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. And Combeferre gripped at his elbow, glad for the excuse to leave the land of happy couples and return to his room singularly. “We’ll leave you two alone,” he said gently. Neither Jehan nor Courfeyrac heard him, though, as they were gripping each other tightly, kissing intently. And he pulled Enjolras from the room. 

“Must they do that _here_?” Enjolras asked, as Combeferre pulled him through the piping. 

“In your stronghold of Revolution? Yes, they must,” Combeferre said strongly. And Enjolras gave him a sharp look that he felt more than saw. “O, come on, Enjolras, it isn’t like it’s driving them to distraction. They’re just…in love.” 

“Love…” Enjolras trailed off. And Combeferre stopped abruptly, turning to face Enjolras in the dim light of the torches. 

“Yes, love, Enjolras,” he said. “And Courfeyrac is _happy_ – deliriously happy. And so is Jehan. So…yeah. Be gentle and try not to look so disapproving when they are expressing their happiness to each other.” 

And Enjolras just looked up at him, his lips twisted to the side, before he muttered something that Combeferre couldn’t hear and _surprisingly_ couldn’t read. (Enjolras could do that, at times. Generally he thoroughly enjoyed the openness between them, the thorough give and take; but sometimes, and more frequently recently, Enjolras completely close him out. It left Combeferre feeling strangely _alone_.) He thought he heard the word ‘confused’. He found himself wondering if he actually had. 

“Are you confused?” Combeferre said gently. “About what?” And Enjolras’s eyes flashed at him dangerously, before he huffed an exasperated breath. His shoulders wilted and he leaned forward. 

“It’s nothing, honestly, ‘Ferre… I just… I can handle it,” he said. And Combeferre met his gaze for a moment, saw something in there – small, faint, but present – that looked a little bit scared. But, as Combeferre sifted through his thoughts, he realized it wasn’t about the failure of their imminent move for freedom… It was about…

And then Enjolras closed him out completely, before standing on his toes and kissing his best friend on the cheek, murmuring goodnight. 

And then he was gone, leaving Combeferre in his wake…feeling strangely and uncomfortably _alone_. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. 

“Joly, it’s not anything serious I swear. I’ve just been a little under the weather, sweetheart. It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Musichetta said, as Joly bustled about in the infirmary. It was the only aboveground portion of their sewer network. (Early on, it had been admitted that the injured generally heal more quickly in an environment where there is the _possibility_ of open, fresh air. As opposed to the festering steam that generally infected the sewer pipes.)

“I know, ‘Chetta,” he murmured back softly, gazing at her with soft eyes, a regular sized syringe balanced in his hand. “I just… It would make me more comfortable if I were to run this blood test.” And at his admission, she nodded, smiling softly, and stuck out her arm.   
There was a knock on the trapdoor, below his feet, just as he inserted the syringe. 

“Just a moment,” Joly called, steady, as he pulled back the plunger, slowly filling the body of the syringe, deep red and thick. Then he pulled the needle clean out and away from Musichetta’s arm and backed up several steps, kicking at the lock on the trapdoor on his way then turning and crossing the room. 

Bossuet pushed through, crawling into the room without grace and closing the trapdoor behind him. Musichetta laughed a bit at his entrance, and he turned around and met her smile with one that was equally as broad. Then he quickly rose to his feet and, without tripping, made his way over and kissed her soundly on the mouth. 

“Get a room,” Joly said softly, as a machine at his fingertips whirred to life. He was grinning at them, however, just as he set about inserting the tube of blood into the thing, watching carefully as it disappeared into its innards. Then he stepped from behind his med table to join them. 

“I would, but I have a feeling you’d interrupt us later, anyway,” Bossuet smiled as he hopped up onto the med-bay bed, next to Musichetta. She laughed as he landed, not on the sheets as he intended, but on her, and pushed him off good-naturedly. 

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t enjoy it,” Joly grinned. And Bossuet reached out, grasping the lapels of Joly’s white coat before pulling him in and kissing him soundly as well. 

“Now what exactly are you doing to poor Musichetta here?” Bossuet asked, as he situated Joly in his lap. Joly laughed, lightly, as he stretched out over both his and Musichetta’s legs. Musichetta ran a hand gently through his hair. 

“Ah, just something I thought may be necessary. I just want to check some things, make sure she’s all right,” he said. Musichetta dropped a kiss to his forehead, then to his lips. 

“And if it puts you more at ease, I’m happy to oblige,” she said gently. 

“Why wouldn’t she be all right?” Bossuet asked suspiciously. And Joly looked up at him, turning pale, a thousand possible diseases running through his mind. Musichetta quickly jumped in and saved him the trouble of running through the list. 

“I’ve just been feeling slightly nauseated recently, honey. Honestly, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. But you know he worries,” she said gently. And Bossuet looked at her with soft eyes for a moment before nodding. 

Just then the machine across the room stopped whirring and elicited an ear-splitting beep. 

Joly, groaning just a bit at having to leave his perch, rolled off his lovers’ laps before returning to it. He gazed at the screen intently for several seconds, before blanching incredibly. 

Musichetta sprang up and rushed to his side only seconds before Bossuet arrived on his other side. “What is it, love? What’s the matter?” she asked softly, gripping his arm. And Joly glanced at her a moment before pointing to the monitor. 

Bossuet leaned in, squinting, as he read the tiny print. “Human chorionic gonadotropin,” he read, mangling the words. He shrugged a bit before freezing. He turned to Joly, a question in his eyes, and Joly just nodded, his eyes torn between joy and _terror_. 

“Was that even…” Musichetta murmured, leaning in. “What does that mean?” she said, looking confused enough that it was obvious she didn’t know, had no clue whatsoever. 

Joly cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. “Ah… ‘Chetta,” he said, his voice still quivering. A petulant look came over his face for a moment before his posture straightened and he looked at Musichetta intently. “Human chorionic gonadotropin is a hormone. Its level rises rapidly in the first trimester of pregnancy. And your level is rather incredibly high.”

And Musichetta wasn’t stupid. At the word ‘trimester’, her face crumbled into the same half joy, half terror that Joly had been exhibiting earlier. “O, shit,” she said softly. “O, shit. We’re pregnant.”

It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact, and Joly nodded his affirmation. Bossuet smiled a bit, just as Musichetta’s face broke into a large, and rather extraordinary grin. Joly smiled too, broad and nervous. Musichetta took his face in her hands gently. 

“O, shit,” she said, her smile still in place. “We’re pregnant.” And then she was kissing him. And Joly wrapped his arms around her waist, clinging to her just a bit. She pulled away for just a moment to grin at him, a fair amount of terror still in her eyes, before twisting a bit in his arms and pulling Bossuet it, kissing him as well. 

Then she paused. “No one tell Enjolras,” she said quietly, against Bossuet’s mouth. He pulled away to meet her eyes. 

“What?” he asked, just as Joly intoned a “Why?” 

And ‘Chetta sighed. “Because he’s going to flip a shit, and then not let me fight in our uprising – and I _need_ to fight. I want to, and you guys need my help. I’m experienced. If he bars me from the fight just because I’m suddenly impregnated, I’m going to claw his eyes out.” 

Joly looked at her, pale. “You’re still going to fight?” he asked, small. And she turned to him with a gentle smile. 

“Baby, of _course_ I’m still going to fight. The woman you fell in love with wouldn’t give up on something like this just because her uterus just suddenly decided to make itself useful instead of being merely a pain in the ass,” she smiled. 

And he sighed, shakily, before holding up a hand. “As your doctor – ” he started, but suddenly she was in his face, blocking nearly everything else from view. 

“O, don’t go giving me this _Dr. Joly_ crap now. You are my lover first, my doctor second,” she said lowly. “And, as you do not have a uterus, you are really… I’m not going to take your opinion much into account, honestly.” 

And Joly, still pale, couldn’t help the grin that fought onto his face. He loved her more than he could say, and this was exactly why. Everything about her was… _perfect_. 

He looked at Bossuet. “Anything to add?” 

Bossuet shrugged. “I knew there was no stopping her anyway. And, I figure, her entire virtue is in the mind, anyway. She’ll be fine. She can take care of herself – and that was before she had us to protect her…when she needs it, of course.” He backpedaled a bit at Musichetta’s testy look. 

“I can protect myself,” she said. And Bossuet nodded, no doubt in his eyes. 

“I have no doubt of that,” he said softly. “I just want you to know that, if you ever, _ever_ need help…or just want it, honestly…you only have to call my name, and I’ll be there.” 

And she blinked at him for a moment, before pulling him in and kissing him softly on the mouth. “Thank you,” she said, holding his gaze. Holding every understanding thought that the human race had ever had in the gaze of one man. She was grateful. 

“The same goes for me, honestly,” Joly said lowly, into her hair. And she turned back to him, head cocked, gentle smile in place. She brushed his hair back from his eyes. 

“Thank you, love,” she said, before kissing him just as gently as she had Bossuet. 

And she loved them both more than words could ever properly describe. And she was pregnant with…she supposed it was the child of _one_ of them. She didn’t care which, and she knew they didn’t either, could see it etched in the soft lines around Joly’s eyes, the relaxed expression on Bossuet’s face. And she was going to fight in this rebellion – because she, as a product of the system, knew more about the inside of the Utopia than Enjolras’s research could ever hope to yield. She knew he needed her and she wasn’t going to back down now. 

Because the thing her boys loved about her was her spirit, and she’d be damned if she let it flag in the face of something like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it. :)
> 
> Questions/comments may be left below, or at my Tumblr address: http://ecriture-de-la-fangirl.tumblr.com
> 
> Now it is late where I am, and I am going to sleep. I adore you all and hope you have a wonderful night!!

**Author's Note:**

> I like superheroes. I like these characters. I thought, why not?
> 
> They call their powers 'virtues'. The government in power has named itself the Utopia. The Amis live in the Underground. Marius is a prodigy. 
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr!! http://ecriture-de-la-fangirl.tumblr.com
> 
> Have a wonderful evening!!


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